Frosty, The Snowman, was a jolly happy soul, with a corncob pipe and a button nose and two eyes made out of coal , but unfortunately he met his doom in a greenhouse one fateful Christmas Eve. Not even his best friend, Karen, nor the great Santa Claus, could save him from his liquefying demise.

And all because of a stupid hat.

But even though Frosty’s heart was pure and innocent in this life, his afterlife was filled with hatred and vengeance, particularly toward one not-so-nice (and rather inept) magician named Professor Hinkle and his hyperactive rabbit, Hocus Pocus.

What’s that axiom? ‘Hell hath no fury like a snowman scorned’? Something like that, anyway.

But even in death, Frosty was not a happy snowman.

Exactly one year later on a freezing Christmas Eve, the aforementioned professor/magician was sitting in his recliner and watching a cartoon dramatization of his felonious murder, when lo and behold there was a knock at the door.

“Now who could that be?” he asked himself.

But before he had a chance to answer it, the door imploded, and there before him stood his frosty victim, reconstituted into his original form, albeit a bit translucent, as all ghosts are. And in his hand he wielded a broom with the handle sharpened to a deadly point, his piercing coal black eyes glaring at his murderer.

“You?” Hinkle cried. “It can’t be! I killed you!”

“Yes you did, Professor,” said Frosty. “But you did not kill the spirit of Christmas!”

And with that, the reconstituted Snowman plunged his janitorial weapon directly through the center of Hinkle’s chest.

Hocus Pocus sat in the corner peeking out from under a conspiratorial hat, his own eyes now gleaming dark and cold.